


Break

by nicKnack22



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Swan Song AU, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:04:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicKnack22/pseuds/nicKnack22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Swan Song AU. Dean is dealing with Sam's loss and a post-Apocalypse world, mostly by not dealing. Then Cas shows up...Angst, pre-slash, hurt/comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abscontrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abscontrix/gifts).



It had been one month. One month, five days, and, if you wanted to get really technical about it, thirteen hours. Dean mostly wanted to stay as far from "technical about it" as possible. Of course, that didn't really stop him from the obsessive counting, which he couldn't prevent, no matter how hard he tried.

He took a long pull from his beer, wishing he had something a bit (a lot) stronger to drown the pain. Nothing ever really did or could, but that didn't mean he wasn't doing his damnedest to reach a state of oblivion.

It was a chilly fall day. He was somewhere in Northern MI, passing through on his way between ghouls in Tennessee, shape shifters in North Dakota, and something that sounded a hell of a lot like djinn in Massachusetts. Dean was hunting like his life depended on it and maybe it did. Sometimes (most of the time) there wasn't enough ACDC in the world to drown out the silence in the Impala. He took another drink.

It was clear and calm here, peaceful even. Dean had pulled over by some lake and now sat perched on the edge of a dock, wearing about three flannel shirts under his leather jacket. The oranges and yellows of the trees painted a fiery inferno against the clear blue sky. A cold wind slapped him in the face, repeatedly. It just seemed so fucking unfair that he was around to see this when Sam was…well, Dean wanted to scream, throw something, just rage at the universe and destiny and all the fucking bullshit. Instead he took another swallow against the pain and gritted his jaw tight, thinking angrily cursing himself for being fucking stupid enough (they had all be stupid enough) to think that they could outsmart the goddamn master plan.

When they had been kids, Dean had taken Sammy fishing somewhere like this—well, Bobby had taken them both, taught them both, against John Winchester's wishes. Sam had been so fucking happy when he caught that damn fish. It was fucking ridiculous.

Dean felt his chin quaver. He liked his lips and bit the bottom one, trying to ignored the burning sensation in his eyes, or drown it.

"Why'd it have to go down like this?" He asked and he wasn't really sure who the hell he was even talking to. If god had ever been around, he sure as hell, didn't give a damn about anything related to the Winchesters. He'd proved that, frequently.

Dean glared at the placid water, glittering in the sunlight. He didn't break down like this in public, even if no one was around to watch. He wasn't a girl. He wasn't Sam, always emoting all over everyone. Dean buried what was bothering him, he shook it off. He was harsher, maybe, gruffer, he laughed less (and there wasn't much laughing to begin with), drank more (considering his borderline alcoholism, that was saying a lot). He hunted like there wasn't enough time, like it was his only purpose, and, well, with Sam gone it really was. He acted like the world was ending, even though it wasn't, not anymore. They had stopped the Apocalypse, but at a cost…

Sam had gone into Lucifer's Cage and the only reason that Dean had not gone to an early grave himself in the month since then was because he had (stupidly, foolishly) promised Sam that he would try to be happy. Like that was even possible.

"Damn it, Sam," he muttered. And he wasn't sure if he could even bother to laugh at that because Sam was damned, well and truly, but it was Dean who was sitting here alone. That's when he heard a strange flapping noise, like the snap of sheets in a breeze or the rustling feathers of an enormous bird. There was a second of silence, when Dean didn't react in any way.

Then, "Hello, Dean," said a deep voice from behind him.

Dean sighed and hastily wiped his eyes with his thumb and forefinger (not that there were tears or anything), stealing himself.

"Cas," he said simply.

The angel stepped closer, and Dean glanced up to see Cas' face silhouetted by the sun, haloed with a golden glow. It was a strangely beautiful sight and at another time, Dean would have attempted to cover up the weird sense of awe he felt with a shitty joke, but now he couldn't really be bothered.

"Drink?" He offered, shaking the now empty bottle vaguely.

Cas cocked his head to the side, as if contemplating the unfathomable depths of the offer or else the full extent of Dean's grief.

"No," he replied, "thank you."

"Right," Dean said, grabbing another bottle for himself and tossing the cap in the general direction of the shoreline, "you want to sit down, man?"

Cas scrutinized the dock closely, like the mechanics of sitting were strange to him. They shouldn't have been: he'd been spending enough time with Dean to grasp the basics of the concept. Some angels just never learn. Dean sighed and tugged on Cas' trenchcoat.

"C'mon, Cas," he encouraged, "nothin' to be scared of," which was complete bullshit. Dean knew, had known since the tender age of four, that there was plenty to be scared of and not just monsters either…

Cas conceded the point and lowered himself gracefully into a seated position, close enough that his shoulders brushed against Dean's, sending shivers down the hunter's spine every time they did. Dean didn't mind, although, he thought that he maybe should have, or would have before.

They sat in silence, Cas' impassive face staring out, unblinking over the water. Dean's pained scowl and overly bright eyes looking at the horizon without seeing anything.

After a few moments, the silence was too much.

"So what brings you here, Cas?" he asked.

Cas turned his attention towards Dean, unfathomable blue eyes piercing as they surveyed Dean's face.

"I sensed your distress," he said simply, as if that explained everything.

"Weren't you in like Nepal or something?" Dean asked. He was pretty sure that's where Cas had said he was going when he left two days ago.

"Yes."

Dean blinked, "You came back from Nepal because I was upset?" Dean couldn't explain and really didn't want to analyze, the strange constricting sensation that produced inside his chest. Sam would want to analyze the hell out of it, he thought ruefully, and then he'd want to fucking talk about it and he'd probably never leave it alone. Ever. And then he'd want to hug it out or some crap like that. Dean had never experienced such a profound desire to be forced to talk about his feelings coupled with relief that he didn't have to.

Chicken, said the Sam in his head.

Shut up, Dean replied.

"Of course," Castiel replied, like it was not big deal, like it was obvious that Dean's emotional distress would lead him to drop whatever he was doing and angel mojo himself back immediately. It was fucking disconcerting when Cas did that: acted like Dean mattered. Like he was precious or important, like everyone should know that already, especially Dean.

Cas' face was solemn and still, but there was a certain glimmer in his eyes. His expression greatly resembled the "stupid human, this is important," look. Unfortunately, Dean couldn't quite decipher exactly what weird, esoteric, angel fact he was supposed to grasp.

You are such an idiot, mind-Sam wailed.

Bitch.

Jerk.

"Ah, thanks," Dean said, eventually, averting his gaze. Cas inclined his head gravely.

"Would you like to discuss it?" the angel offered. Dean assumed that he was referring to the fucking beam of distress he projected loud enough for Cas to pick up on half-way around the world. It's like a fucking bat-signal of depression. Sure enough, "Sam I mean," Cas clarified, as if guiding confessional conversations was a somewhat recently acquired skill.

"Yeah, I got that, thanks," Dean retorted, "and no, I don't."

Cas didn't push. He never pushed this. Not once in the past month, five days, and thirteen hours. Dean didn't know if it was because the angel didn't know it was required to pester the recently bereaved or because Cas just knew Dean. Like, really, knew Dean, well enough to understand that he would talk when he was ready (hopefully, sometime before the next apocalypse, though that seemed increasingly unlikely) and not before.

Subsequently, Cas had done a lot of Dean watching. Standing by as that hunter slowly fell apart, pulled himself back together, and fell apart again, trying to contain his grief and guilt and only partially succeeding. Dean suspected that Cas was hovering around, waiting in the wings to run heavenly interference on the impeding self-destruction. Dean chose not to acknowledge or ask exactly when Cas had begun to sense his emotions from the other side of the globe. File that under things I'm not ready to deal with, ever. Whether he had always been able to and just recently cared enough to do something about it, or if his perception had increased with every snarky comment Dean threw his way, every time Cas showed up to wake him from his nightmares, or stand by in this stable, steady, force at his back when he had no one else, Dean really didn't know.

"It is never easy to process loss Dean," Cas said, his gaze once again focusing on the play of light on water.

"Stop, Cas," Dean retorted firmly. He did not want to do this, especially not right now.

Cas returned to silent contemplation. Dean opened a new bottle.

"I have lost siblings before, Dean," Cas tried, and there was an inflection in his voice that Dean wasn't sure he'd heard before. Sympathy, earnestness, pain, they were things he'd maybe learned from Sam (this conversation reeked of Sam's influence) or maybe he'd had those traits all along and Dean just hadn't noticed.

Dean face was tight, jaw clenched, he gritted out the words from between his teeth, "Yeah, well, they weren't Sam." On some level, he knew that that wasn't totally fair, but it was true, and there was too much raw hurt for Dean to really care. Since when had the universe been fair, anyway?

"The universe is rarely fair, Dean," Cas agreed.

"Are you in my head, Cas?" That was the last straw, "Fuck, that is not cool, man. We've talked about this: boundaries. Fuck." There were more reasons, than Dean could count for why he didn't want Cas poking around up there.

Cas turned, and Dean felt the full weight of angelic scrutiny-Castiel's peculiar brand of it, which was always more effective than Uriel or Zachariah's holier than thou bullshit. Cas looked at Dean like he could see straight to his soul and maybe he could, he put him back together after all, in more ways than one. Dean glared right back because he didn't want this strange alien pity. He didn't fucking want this, not any of it. Because this situation was just so screwed up, just like Dean himself was. Sam was in hell, Dean was trying to kill himself in the line of duty, and Cas was staring at him with this look in his eyes that Dean couldn't process and he wanted to discuss fucking feelings. God damn it.

"It was not my intention. You are projecting your feelings rather…" Cas paused, evidently searching for a word to explain the extent of Dean's "projection." He finally decided upon, "forcefully."

"Bullshit," Dean spat. The last thing he needed was Cas acting like a damn empath all of a sudden. Every muscle in his body tensed, like he was preparing for a fight, "Just go the fuck away, Cas, back to Mt Everest or wherever the hell you came from and leave me alone."

Cas just tilted his head to the side. Surveying Dean carefully before pronouncing, "No."

"No? Are you fucking kidding me?" Dean felt close to losing it completely. There was a pressure in his chest, a burning sensation in his throat and the backs of his eyes. He wanted to scream. "You disappear for weeks at a time when we actually need you, and then you show up and won't leave. Seriously, Cas, just get the fuck out of here."

"I regret my earlier absences deeply," Cas spoke gruffly, "they could not be helped, but I am not leaving you, Dean."

"Go away," Dean ordered.

"No," Cas replied simply, blinking owlishly.

Suddenly, before he knew what was happening, Dean was on his feet and Cas stood in front of him, apparently at his ease. Dean had never hated that calm face so much in his life. Then he was shouting. He threw his empty bottle at the lake and he was shaking with the effort of not spontaneously combusting.

"Damn it, Cas, Just go," he spat furiously.

Cas didn't move away, didn't shift, didn't waver, "No," he repeated firmly.

"Just—just fucking, please, Cas," Dean could feel something that horrifically resembled tears in his eyes and it fucking hurt. He didn't want anyone to see this, especially Cas. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, the taste of copper flooding his mouth. He blinked hard and fast and looked away from Cas, who suddenly seemed too understanding, like he had been waiting for this, too kind, to here that it actually hurt to look at him. Dean glanced away quickly before he could break more, glaring fiercely at the lake.

"I am here, Dean," Cas' tone was gentle and matter-of-fact, as if that was where he was meant to be and suddenly it was too much: the apocalypse, Sam, Bobby, Cas—Dean lost it.

He crumpled like a puppet whose stings were cut and he fell, reaching out for the rail to support himself as his knees gave way. But his hand found warm material instead of weathered boards, and it was Cas who caught him as he collapsed. It was Cas who awkwardly wrapped an arm around Dean's hunched and shaking shoulders when they reached the ground.

Cas had watched human suffering for millennia, but it seemed like this might be the first time he had attempted to offer comfort.

"Fuck," Dean said, furiously wiping at his eyes and blinking, taking deep staggering breaths, "I can't do this."

Cas didn't say anything, but Dean was close enough to feel him angle his head to the side. And then Dean realized that for all their talks (well his talks) about personal space, he had never actually been this close to Cas before. He had kept the boundaries firm between them and now he was sitting here, fucking sobbing, with Cas' arm wrapped around his shoulder, feeling all too human and smelling strangely like rain and ozone. Only took an apocalypse to get them there. Dean felt guilty because, as much as he had tried to resist this, avoid this contact, it was something that he had craved (which was, probably, why he had run away from it for so long) and now, the reason he was here was just so fucking wrong. Dean was wiping snot from his nose and he felt some barrier crack as he relaxed against Cas, too tired to keep maintain his walls. Cas, who had seemed unsure and stiff was relaxing too, becoming more pliant against Dean's back. The angel felt real and solid and human except Dean knew that he wasn't, knew that he was more, and felt in in the way his skin hummed as Cas traced Enochian sigils onto Dean's unmarked shoulder.

"This is not a physical wound," Cas admitted, slowly, "I cannot remove your pain, Dean." His serious voice was laced with regret and it sounded like an apology. His fingers kept moving on Dean's arm. He wondered what Cas was writing, what message he coded in the glyphs: protection, apology, a plea for forgiveness, a prayer for help, some strange communion that Dean couldn't understand but would feel, would work its way into him. He felt a lump in his throat. Cas meant it. He would take it away if he could. And Dean suddenly wondered why he felt okay here, here and nowhere else, with Cas' awkward frame supporting him and his gravelly voice offering comfort and letting him be. Dean just breathed for a moment, trying to pull it together.

"Sam's gone," he said finally, choking on the words like shrapnel caught in his throat, cutting and scrapping as they worked their way out of his system. It hurt like a bitch.

Cas nodded solemnly, "Yes," he agreed, "He is gone."

Dean clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. He felt Cas' fingers still and the grip on his shoulder tighten. The touch caused a wave of sensation to hit Dean, all the grief and anger and regret and fear. All of it. It was like a tsunami, consuming him, drowning him, and then it crested and broke, scattering at that faint pressure on his arm.

He turned to look at Cas, whose face was only an inch or two from his own, whose blue eyes mirrored the lake and the sky and held things in their depths that Dean couldn't face yet, wasn't sure he would be ready to face.

The angel surveyed the wreckage of Dean Winchester gravely, almost tenderly.

"But you're here," Dean whispered gruffly.

Cas stared at Dean, "Yes," he replied, quietly, like a promise, "I am here, Dean." And he was.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is my first foray into writing SPN fanfic (which I'm apparently no longer allowed to keep hidden, scribbled in a notebook on my bookshelf). I wrote this a while ago, after watching Seasons 1-4 in about two weeks and drowning in the feels they produced. Comments/feedback would be really welcome. Thanks for reading.


End file.
